The Blood Red Streets of Brooklyn
by Skye Feyden
Summary: Shame and Finch ... two friends (one from Chicago, one a confidante of Spot Conlon) discover a cruel world hidden within the very depths of the city they love. Can they fight it and win?
1. PART ONE: Eternal Shame

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Shame and Finch … two young Brooklyn boys who find a world of comfort and friendship in each other. But when a new institution threatens the relative stability of everything they have come to love, they are forced into a world of cruelty much more horrible than anything they could ever have imagined. With the help of the Brooklyn newsboys they have always relied upon and Jack Kelly's Manhattan gang, they are forced to confront the developing carelessness that begins to slowly consume their own New York City.

A better summary for you, then. Hope that interests you and hope you read and review for me! By the way, I can lay claim only to my two boys Shame and Finch -- everyone else belongs to Disney, blah blah blah … enjoy!

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BR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R!

What are the machines saying? They are saying, "We are hungry. We have eaten up the men and women (there is no longer a market for men and women, they come too high)--

We have eaten up the men and women, and now we are devouring the boys and girls.

How good they taste as we suck the blood from their rounded cheeks and forms, and cast them aside sallow and thin and care-worn, and then call for more!

-- "The Machines" by Ernest Crosby, 1902

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The Blood-Red Streets of Brooklyn

PART ONE: Eternal Shame

ONE

HE WATCHED FINCH SLEEPING SOUNDLESSLY BESIDE HIM. It was very early morning and homesickness for Chicago settled over him like a dark cloud.

Rolling over, he glanced out of the window to see the stars. They were there, as always, shining down on him, but when he made his wish there was only cold, hard, unanswering silence. He turned back to Finch and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Yes, he had known happiness since leaving his home … Finch was his rare glimmer of sunshine, his ray of light in a dark, dark world.

"What's wrong, Shame?"

The voice rumbled up from the bottom of his friend's chest and Shame was startled.

"I didn't think you were awake," Shame said softly, eyeing Finch's muscular back in the light of the moon.

"I am." came the simple answer. "Whaddah yah need?"

"Nothing."

Finch's voice was gentle. "Yah miss Chicago?"

A knot in his throat, Shame nodded. The wordlessness of the reply was not lost on his friend.

It seemed like yesterday that Shame had stepped off the train, his working-class pork-pie hat pulled low over his brow, his brown vest crumpled and stained, a bag in each hand. He had been running from a past that would chase him forever, so eager in his uncertainty to create a new life, and a new future, for himself.

He looked to the sides. In the silver moonlight he could see familiar shapes, chests rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. In the bunk below him was Racetrack, their Brooklyn leader's closest friend and confidante. He peered down at the young face. Sleeping, Racetrack looked angelic and innocent. The smugness was gone. So was the new-placed weariness. Shame loved Racetrack well, and he was sorry now to see so much stress placed upon the little shoulders of the fiery Italian. But Racetrack handled it well, he never complained, never fussed.

He rolled back over. Finch's body was warm next to him, the tall, slimly well-muscled body of a seventeen year old boy who was just beginning to fill his figure in. Mush was across from them, that big sweetheart whose gentleness far exceeded his size. Shame smiled at the sleeping figure. In Mush he had found a good friend, a big protector, and a comforting soul. For that he was glad, but no one could ever equal Finch.

There was Dutchy, and Snitch and Itey, and Skittery, and Boots, Jack, Kid Blink, Crutchy, Snoddy, Pie Eater, Bumlets, Swifty, even little Snipeshooter, and Specs, whose glasses were laying on the ground next to his bunk. Specs without his glasses was like Crutchy without his walking stick. It simply did not work.

"We can't stay late," Finch said quietly. He shifted his weight and the bed creaked. Shame felt his friend's bare chest against his body.

He nodded regretfully. "I know."

"I think Jack's awake." the other boy said. His voice was soft so as not to wake the other boys. "We should talk to him before we go back to Brooklyn."

Shame looked over to Jack's bed. It was empty. "I think he's gone to say good-bye to Davey. Since he's off to school again."

Finch scratched his head, thinking for a moment. "Jack's goin' tah be half a person widout Dave around."

"School is better than the streets, though," Shame said softly, his stomach giving a guilty lurch as he remembered his own past and he was not sure if this statement really was true. At least in Brooklyn he shared a bed with Finch, and a roof was over his head. After leaving Chicago he could ask for nothing more. He had no right to ask for anything more.

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Chicago.

He missed it even still.

"I dunno," Finch replied. "S'a fine life. Grand livin'."

Shame curled into Finch's warm body. "Should we talk to Race since Jack isn't here?"

"We gotta talk tah somebody," Finch answered. "Don' care who, long's dey knows we's leavin'."

He was sorry to sit up and away from his friend … he was always so comfortable with Finch, always felt so loved and protected. Wrapped up in that emotion was not a bad place to be. Such a comfort had been a long time in coming for Shame.

And he was sorry to leave these Manhattan boys whom he loved deeply. All this loyalty, all this strength … he loved being able to wake to it every morning. It was more than he had ever been given before. There was a love in his heart for them that could not be justly expressed in words. Even in Shame's words, because Shame was a writer and his art was the way he used his language.

His worn shoulder bag sat on the ground next to the bunk. Stuffed in it were mounds of paper he had bound together using a needle and some tough thread. He eyed the bag, then looked regretfully at the sleeping Manhattan boys. "I'm so tired, Finch."

"I know," came the answer in a perfectly soft tone. "I know."

The sun was no where near risen yet but the sky had turned that dull gray that the pending morning always dragged kicking and screaming behind it. On the street below there seemed to be sitting a silent, unmoving blandness. It lifted Shame's heart in an odd, inexplicable way -- it was another day with his closest companion in this wonderful city of New York.

Was it wrong to love New York when Chicago was his home?

"Come on, they'll be awake soon," Finch urged gently. He quietly slipped down from the high bunk and suddenly Shame felt cold and alone without the beautiful presence of his friend. Head reeling with early morning, he watched as Finch slipped on a pair of sagging trousers over his white underwear and donned a dirty white button-up shirt. The last part of his attire consisted of a gray pork-pie hat and an old pair of boots that ran a size too small for the boy who wore them.

"I hear Mr. Kloppman," Shame said into the room filled only with the sounds of deep sleep. He watched Racetrack's little chest rise and fall, that dark tiny face erased of all stress, of all frustration, of all sorrow. Of all the Manhattan boys, Racetrack's past was probably easily the most horrid, the most frightening. Shame felt a deep pity-struck love well up in his heart as he looked on the sleeping Racetrack, whose little hands were balled up under his face.

And now, more than ever, Racetrack was helpless against his own fate.

"Come on, Shame, and be quiet," Finch said gently, urging his friend down. He gave Shame a hand to help him from the bunk and the young boy's feet made only the softest patter as they hit the ground.

He dressed quickly and quietly, pulling on the shirt Finch had lent him (it was several sizes too big but he tucked it into his own pair of trousers) and slipped on his pork-pie hat. His shoulder bag across his body, he followed Finch from the room, throwing one last sorrowful glance back at the sleeping Manhattan boys.

The lobby was still dark and deserted as they made their way down the stairs. Finch knew which stairs creaked, which groaned in complaint under the weight of growing boys, and Shame nimbly leapt past them to the next one. He was not a big fellow although he was lean and well muscled for one his size. He did not know the ethnicity of his blood, but his short-shorn hair was very very dark and his eyes had the colour of a brown so deep they were almost black. His lashes were long and when he blinked slowly, it gave him almost a feminine appearance, one that Finch was good never to tease him about. He did not know the ethnicity of his blood, but when his tanned olive skin was matched beyond that even of Racetrack, he had no doubt that he shared some obvious tie of country with the little wiseguy Italian.

He knew which window it was that Mr. Kloppman left broken for the boys to use at night. Mr. Kloppman was always considerate of their insomnia or of their masculine needs, and now Shame had learned to come and go as he pleased. They could catch an early breakfast and return to tell the boys good-bye, maybe take Racetrack back to Brooklyn if he wanted to go. Their young leader and Racetrack were very close, very secretive, almost, in their affairs. But Shame did not begrudge Spot Conlon his friendships where they were strong. Spot Conlon was very different than most other newsboys, he was always so very much alone. It seemed to Shame that Spot Conlon needed Racetrack in a certain way and that Racetrack was glad to give relief to his closest of companions.

"Breakfast?" Shame asked as they crawled through the window to the street outside. Not even the street vendors had started to set up yet, but the little place frequented by newsboys would stay open all night for those boys who ate on a different schedule than the rest of New York City.

Finch nodded. "Just a little. Then it's back here before we leave for home again."

Home. Home was not Brooklyn for Shame. Home was Chicago.

"We'll talk to Racetrack," the smaller boy replied. "He'll tell Jack. Is Race coming to Brooklyn with us?"

"If he wants," Finch shrugged. "Spot never said tah bring him."

He was content with that answer. Racetrack's presence would be a comfort to him, but if he wasn't coming, oh well to that too. They walked along the dark streets, their shoulders touching. His stomach rumbled hungrily. Being a young writer sure was grand, but since no one wanted to buy his stuff … he rubbed his stomach. One day, one day the publishers and the papers would be interested, they would all want to hear what he had to say. 

But now there was a different story in his bag, one much darker than the rest, one much more brutal in its truth … and still it was unfinished …

Spot Conlon paid him well enough for his work, however, and he was glad to do it. Writing letters, reading columns in the papes, that sort of thing. The Brooklyn newsboys could speak well enough, there was no doubt, and a few could read more than simple headlines, but fewer still could write. And those that could write were often too wary of hand, too unsure of letters and spelling and even the most basic of mechanics. Shame had learned, he had learned long ago in Chicago, and the fact made him proud. Most often, though, Spot would dictate messages while Shame wrote, and then he himself was sent to deliver them. It was what separated him from New York's newsboys, from the orphans, the talent which made him unique.

Shame was devastatingly intelligent.

"It's gonna be a cool day," Finch said quietly at his side, voice still soft. It was a voice that almost had a texture, it was so filled with humanity and gentleness. Shame nodded.

"I wish winter would hold back, though," he replied. "Toughest season. Makes everyone desperate to survive."

He could see the outline of the tiniest of smiles on Finch's handsome face. "We's always desperate tah survive, Shame."

There was a light burning in the window of the restaurant and Shame was glad for the familiar scene. Through the grimy pane of glass he could see a yawning waitress behind the front desk. Oh well, he was tired too, but for he and Finch it was move or die in times like this.

The little bell knocked against the door as they opened it and Shame was first in. He pushed his hat forward off of his head and held it in his clutches as he waited for the presence of an employee before he seated himself. The same yawning waitress re-entered from the bathroom and Finch led the smaller boy to the table by the window they occupied every time they ate here. It seemed to be reserved exclusively for them.

Shame picked up the menu and opened it, but Finch did not bother. Finch was not like Shame, he could not read, although he was every bit as intelligent. "S'just a differn' kind of intelligent," he had once said, a finger lightly on his temple as if to emphasize his point. And it was true, Shame had long ago realised. Finch was very smart, and despite his tall size, he was very agile too.

"Just a coke fer me, thanks," came Finch's voice through Shame's thoughts. The other boy quickly folded his menu again and looked up.

"Eggs and a coke, please." he said and smiled. He had a nice smile, a sweet little thing, shining white in a tan face with such dark hair and eyes. Like a little child his skin was smooth and untarnished as of yet by any sign of impending manhood. It was convenient not to have to shave every morning like the other boys.

"Someone's hungry." Finch smiled with a tone that was mocking in a friendly manner.

"Yeah, and don't you ever eat?" Shame said, trying to be irritated. It did not work.

"Me?" the other boy questioned. "Nah. Got a pack'a smokes I made meself tah get me t'rough dah day." After a moment of fishing around in his pocket he produced a cardboard flap lined with hand-rolled cigarettes and a box of matches with which to light them. Cigarettes were expensive. They were easier to make than to buy … or to steal, Shame thought with a wry smile.

He and Finch had never been above stealing to live.

But sometimes it was stupid to steal, dumb in situations where they were watched or they had not planned an escape. Stealing was an action for things much grander, much larger and much more expensive than cigarettes. Money, or clothes, things like that. And why not? Everyone had a place, a designated slot in life. Shame and Finch were bottom of the pack, the lowest of the low. Shame looked out the window to hide the angry color rising in his cheeks. Who had decided to take his comfort and deal it to someone else?

He heard the sound of a plate being set before him and he saw his eggs and coke awaiting his hunger. Finch was smoking, leaning back in his chair, contemplating whatever was running through his head. Shame pulled his seat in closer. The food here was surprisingly good, for such a cheap price at least. Did he not deserve to fill his stomach a little every now and then? Ah, but he didn't know what he deserved anymore …

The food seemed to be gone in seconds, the little plate emptied of its two fluffy, scrambled eggs. Had Shame not hated the sound of silverware scraping ceramic plates he would have done it just to see that even the last traces of the food was gone, but he threaded together some dignity and set the plate aside. The coke was sweet and seemed to give him an added burst of energy as he drained the tall cup. Not everyday could they afford to eat like this and he cherished it when they did splurge. Spot cared well for them, though. Spot made sure his boys never went to bed with an empty stomach when they slept in the old Brooklyn warehouse by the Bridge.

The first rays of a not-yet-risen sun crept through the clouds above. The air seemed to groan with the changing gears the pending day always brought along with it, and Shame sighed. He dared a glance at his shoulder bag seated on the floors. It was time to be off, now that he had done business as usual. Mr. Kloppman hadn't even charged them for their stay in the Lodging House, he was so kind and sympathetic. A good man, truly, in a day and age where greed and exploitation ruled all.

"Done?" Finch seemed to have awoken from his moment of silent contemplation. The legs of his chair made a small clicking sound as they touched the floor. His glass of cola sat half empty before him.

"You smell like smoke now," Shame pointed out. "Like cigarettes."

Finch pressed the hand-rolled butt into the ashtray on the table and a thin gray cloud rose in protest, then faded. "Yeah, an' I smell like a lotta uddah things too an' dey ain't half so pleasant."

"You forget yourself, Finch. I do, too."

The tall boy smiled. "I pay, you leave dah tip."

"Fair enough." With that, Shame took out a handful of things which had collected in his pocket and he carefully picked out two pennies. The rest he stuffed back in.

By the time they paid and passed beyond the peeling golden letters that read "Tibby's," the sun was just beginning to rise over the Hudson. Every day Shame swam in the river.

In Chicago he had swam in the lake.

"Time for our good-byes," Shame said quietly. "I feel like a coward running to hide in Brooklyn."

Finch was never anything less than complete understanding. He sensed his friend's pain. "Remembah what I told yah, Shame, courage --"

"Courage is saying good-bye." Shame broke in softly. So many times had Finch told him that.

He loved Finch. Would he have to be brave, one day, and tell Finch good-bye, too?

The uncertainty killed him, though, it made him think long into the night, hoping, praying for the safety of his friends. He did not pray often, but when he did, it was not for an easy life, rather for the courage to endure a difficult one.

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Courage is saying good-bye.

It was one form of courage Shame did not have.

"Yah all packed?"

Shame nodded. "Packed last night. Just have my bag," he replied, patting the worn thing slung across his shoulder. His papers rustled.

He had been told many times of the Strike just months ago … now they had a different mission in mind, one that scared him senseless. The newsboys had stopped the World; now they would stop the Crusade.

How many times had he heard the tales of disappearing friends, of stolen orphans? The stories were horrible, cruel, terrifying. He heard them whispered from boy to boy on the streets, or repeated in anger when confrontations arose. At the thought of the words, "Stop causin' trouble or dey'll send yah out on dah Children's Crusade," he shivered. So many boys went into the factories and came out missing fingers, hand, even entire arms -- or they simply did not come back out at all.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Finch swore softly at his side.

"Didn' think dah storm was gonna hit tahday, of all days," the taller boy explained quietly. "Ah, well, we're expected back in Brooklyn eidder way."

"Maybe it'll just pass," Shame said hopefully. "Just go right over us."

"No, me leg hurts," Finch shook his head. He reached down subconsciously to rub his shin where it had once been shattered in a vicious fight. "Been hurtin' all night but I thought it might just be dah cold settin' in."

"Let's hurry, then. We don't want to be stuck on the Bridge when it hits."

Their pace quickened and in just moments their respective gaits brought them through the doorway of the Lodging House. Mr. Kloppman was whittling a pipe at his desk and he looked up and waved to them as they passed.

"Hello, boys," he greeted. "Better hurry -- heard some thunder out there."

"Hello," Shame returned the greeting in a warm manner.

"Just gotta say good-bye," Finch said as they bustled up the stairs. The noise of readying boys came to their ears.

Upon their entrance there was a flurry of noise and welcomings. Shame felt someone pat him on the back and when he turned he saw a smiling Mush, washing his face with a towel.

"Come tah tell us yous're leavin'?" Racetrack was always the one to see through any situation.

Finch nodded. "We're expected back in Brooklyn any day. I'm shoah Spot wants tah see us."

"Jack ain't heah so I'se'll show yous off. Didn't leave no lettah fer Spot, Jack didn't." Racetrack shrugged. His black eyes pierced, although Shame had known him long enough to see the overpowering warmth in them. Shame smiled.

"Do you want to come back with us?" he asked. "Spot always has a place for you."

Racetrack smiled. "Can't, kid, dough tell 'im I wish 'im all dah best. An' tell 'im I miss 'im an' will come soon."

"Of course, Race," Shame said and they embraced momentarily. The factories seemed to pull boys right from the streets; how long would it be before one of their own Manhattan friends was sent on the Children's Crusade?

"Come back real soon," Mush said and his smiling face didn't seem to shine with the usual child-like optimism. "Take care'a yousselfs."

"We'll miss yah, Mushy," Finch said. Then, more softly, "God keep you."

Shame did not know how much religion Mush had in him, but the bigger boy smiled with true conviction, genuine affection. "An' you too, Finch. Stay safe, Shame."

Shame looked around one last time. The Manhattan boys were all smiling cheerily to show them out, and at last, when the two young Brooklyn boys turned and went, Shame couldn't help but to think that all those smiles were slightly tarnished with fear and a new, ever-present weariness.


	2. Chapter TWO

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Artemis: Thanks again (as always) for your review. Dark, yes. Although I have to admit some of that stuff about the "Children's Crusade" was my own invention. The Children's Crusade actually took place in the Holy Land when boys from Christian countries, like the Holy Roman Empire and Frace, etc. etc., were sent to fight their enemies (having been promised land and riches in return for their "travels"). Some actually made it to war, some learned in advance of what they had been sent to do and escaped early to make homes in Italy, Frace, and what is now Germany. But because this new institution (another true but dark chapter of history) bears such similarity to the now-forgotten historic event, I decided to simplify and use the same name for it. Why not? Hahahaha, now you've learned something new in addition to reading my story. And yes, I like my boys, too. Great guys, and Shame is someone we know, hahahahaha. _Hmmmmm_ …

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Felicity Wood: Aw, my very first reviewer! Thanks a ton for reading, and I am definitely keen on writing this, so don't worry, it'll keep going!

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The Blood-Red Streets of Brooklyn

TWO

He considered himself carefully in the mirror. Same dark hair, the darkest brown it looked black even in the sun. Same dark eyes, their black depths swirling with a torrent of emotion. When he had been younger, just a little child, he had thought that someday, someone would look into those eyes and be drawn forever into that whirling pool of thought and pain.

Same olive skin, same shining smile. Same muscled figure. He pulled up his shirt and felt his tightly defined abdominals, emaciated with hunger. Ah, God, what mockery was this?

He wiped the dirt from his cheeks with a damp rag. There, now he was fit to see Spot Conlon. But Jack hadn't even sent a letter in reply, or at least he hadn't sent it with Shame. Maybe a Manhattan boy would arrive later with word.

"You called?" Shame said softly to the figure seated before the window. In the light of the afternoon sun pouring in through the window, the figure was impressive, not in height but in the steel of his rigid posture. It was a slender silhouette, no less hungry or fierce than the rest of the Brooklyn Boys.

Spot turned. "Yous're back," he said. "Yah saw Jack?"

"Yeah, but he didn't send a reply." came the ready answer. Spot was _… what, seventeen now?_ … but there was nothing but the greatest control in Spot's appearance, the boldest fearlessness. Sometimes he wondered exactly what kind of a person Spot was on the inside, where he could not put up such an iron front …

"He's helpin', dough?" Spot's brows furrowed. Green eyes, mixed with blue so that they were almost violet, shone out in the shadowed of the old, abandoned room.

Shame smiled. "He's trying to keep his boys together, too." 

Spot's permanent look of skepticism softened. "Good, good. Whaddid he hafta say tah yous two?"

"Just the usual. And today he was off to see Davey since Dave's leaving for school again."

"Smoke?" Spot offered. Inwardly Shame was pleased with the consideration … Spot only offered his smokes to those close with the young leader.

The stories as to Spot's ascension to the throne of Brooklyn had come to him muddied and reluctant … he did not care to ask now.

He reached out for the cigarette even though he did not often smoke. To refuse would have looked insulting to Spot. And he loved Spot, but not Spot's ever-imminent wrath.

"How many have we lost in total, Spot?"

"We's lost a full five," the voice seemed pained, every word a softly dying breath. "Nevah came back. An' I don' treat dah boys dat bad, do I?"

"They would have come back had they been able to come back." Shame assured him. Shame was no courtier, his job was not to flatter, only to obey and to be honest.

Spot seemed angry, like a bird with its feathers ruffled. "Tell Finch I want dah best boys out lookin' fer dah ones we's lost." he said, suddenly put into motion. His cigarette was hanging forgotten between his fingers now. "I want you an' Finch listenin' everyweah yah can, tah listen der dah names'a me boys. I want dem found, dead or alive."

"There's not much of a chance, Spot. And the chance that does exist -- well, it's more likely they'll turn up dead."

"Den it happens, but I wanna know fer shoah." There was something about Spot that was never quite real, never quite definable. Even after what Shame could only figure to be more or less a year, Spot's persona, his entire being, still remained a mystery. Physically they were close to the same size, if Spot wasn't just a mere inch or so taller.

"We'll listen, Spot." Shame replied into the silence which followed. From the streets below he could hear passing carriages, laughing pedestrians. And in the far distance, Coney Island.

Always, always Coney Island.

"Ain't Finch aroun'?"

"He went to see a guy about a bet he needs to collect. Good money, too." the smaller boy answered. "It was now or never, and he wants his money."

"Wha' did Racetrack say tah yous?"

Shame mentally recounted the words. "He says that he wishes you well, and that he misses you and will visit soon."

It took a moment, but Spot smiled. Now Shame knew better, but it seemed Spot's smile was always tinged with the slightest twist of cynicism, pride, and greed. So very sly, and intimidating in a fierce way, that turn of his lips was. But at least now Shame knew Spot, he knew the leader's manners and habits and nervous ticks. And most of all, he knew that out of all the boys, it seemed Spot was the loneliest of them all.

Spot stood. It was of character for him to seem weary, but today he did. No wonder Race and Spot got on so well … they had the meanest poker faces Shame had ever seen. But today was somehow different. Today Spot wore a different face.

He looked tired.

"Can I get you something?" It was not the question of a servant to a master; it was the question of equals now.

"Nah, nah, I don' need nothin'. Nice dat Jack's willin' tah help out, dough." Spot sounded relieved, though it was very faint in his voice. "Gotta lotta convincin' tah do, Shame. Lotta districts tah help, lotta leadahs tah join in. An' I just wanna find me boys."

"This is the price of progress," Shame said bitterly. Usually around Spot, he was much more reserved, much less talkative and bold. Finch had grown up with Spot, he knew Spot on a much deeper level, but at the moment Finch was not there. It was Shame, and Spot, and a package of lifted smokes.

And unnerving silence.

"Yeah, dah uddah boys is all out," Spot said, dabbing the butt of his half-burned cigarette onto the dusty window sill. He had the most interesting trick of following a thought. Frightening, almost, the way he was able to weave conversation. He leaned against the wall, looking out the window to the harbour below. Spot chose for the Brooklyn Boys to stay close to the Bridge, close to the link between his district and that of Jack Kelly's.

Times were growing dangerous, however, and soon it was possible they would have to flee inland for protection. But Spot was proud, and while he lived Shame knew that no man and no institution could make the young leader budge from his life-long home. Was such pride damnable and foolish?

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We will, Shame thought ominously, _find out soon enough_.

"Eat yet?"

Shame exhaled. "Yeah, this morning before I came in."

"Will yah find Finch fer me?"

"He'll be back soon. I'll tell him to see you when he shows up again."

"T'anks," Spot said but already he was detached again and the thousands of leagues of impenetrable silence had engulfed him again, leaving Shame feeling alone in the room with his young leader.

He left, knowing that Spot had retreated from him and that nothing he could say would make a difference now -- as always, Spot's brooding distance lifted him away from Shame and from the other boys as well. Silence followed him down the abandoned hallway, littered with the newsboys' trash and few meager possessions. Doorless entries led to rooms filled with blankets and cots and it felt odd to see two of them dusty now, the cheap sheets still balled up in the corner even now as if they expected their occupants to come back at any moment. It gave Shame a clenched feeling in his heart and he quickened his gait. He could not linger in such a heavy atmosphere as that.

Yesterday's storm had left the world beautiful and quiet in its wake and even the slummy streets smelled fresh and clean. The asphalt was damp still and the cobblestones felt cool on the smooth soles of his feet. He padded along for a moment, breathing in the faint smell of sea salt mixed with the apparent scent of the river mud. Even though the summer was winding down, the river had not yet cooled and usually when the boys were done selling their morning papers they played off the docks and the moored ships. None of them were rich, no where near to it, but all of New York seemed to be at their every beck and call.

Except for now, when the factories were bearing down.

In the distance, without immediate noise around him, he could hear Coney Island. He listened for a moment. It was another reason that Spot Conlon was so feared, the fact that he could maintain such an iron grip on his district as to even control the doings of that freak-show world of the bizarre. The very outskirts of Brooklyn and a fierce plot of land it was in its own right, Coney Island was. Finch had taken him there one night and more than anything Shame had been terrified by the park that boasted of such things as numerous brothels and a Little Egypt. It was an absolute world away from the ordinary, a place that was more like living in a horrible dream, a permanent, inescapable haze. Only the twisted and the sick could enjoy such a place as that, Shame thought, although when he envisioned its glowing avenues, its screaming capacity crowds, its freak shows with painted, heavy-lidded women, its alleys of sin and debauchery, a pleasantly half-sick, half-frightened feeling fluttered in his stomach.

He still had his shoulder bag with him and he trapsed out to the dock upon which he always wrote. The month's rain had swollen the river and he dangled his strong tanned legs in the luke-warm water. For a moment he chewed on his love-worn wooden pencil before the sound of familiar footfalls behind him made him pause.

"Get your money, Finch?"

"Most of it. See Spot, Shame?"

Shame nodded and smiled. "He's grateful to Jack. But I think this is too much for him, Finch. Those boys who were -- who were _taken_, he wants to search for them."

"Dey ain't alive no moah," Finch said softly and in the quietness that followed, Shame's pained heart was chilled by the sound of the waves lapping on the wooden dock.

"Then he wants confirmation of their deaths," he said defiantly. "And by God, Finch, I think he damn well deserves it. And we deserve it, too, don't we?" His voice was a reflection of Finch's own softness.

But Finch quietly put the back of his hand up to his mouth. As if aware it was a gesture of weakness, he pulled it away. He did not say much but his eyes did. "We'll try, Shame."

Shame nodded. "Spot also says he wants to see you. Asked me to tell you that when you finished collecting your bet."

"Lousy bastard couldn't pay the whole thing." Finch grumbled. "I'm missin' two dollahs."

"How much did you get?"

Finch smiled slyly. "Five, if it's any concern a'yours."

"You could eat for a year on that." Shame said in wonderment. "What kind of a bet did you make?"

Another sly smile. "Let's just say dat tahday every man considers 'imself an expert judge'a horse flesh."

"Ah, I see." Then, more seriously, "You'd better go see Spot. He hasn't been very happy lately, I'd say."

"Hard times fer alla us, but Spot always takes dese things dah worst. Since he's dah leadah an' all." Finch reached out a hand to touch Shame's strong little shoulder. "I'll be back, kid."

Shame touched Finch's fingers for just an instant, as if looking for confirmation that Finch was flesh and blood, a tangible, earth-bound creature who would not disappear with the slightest shift of winds. It was also a tender gesture of unspeakable affection.

He listened as the footsteps faded away again, back into the mist that was rolling in. It was just after noon, and still cool. But rain was becoming a constant thing suddenly and he wished that for just one day it would stop. He hated traversing all through the city wet and cold. But he would not refuse when Spot Conlon asked a favour of him. Especially not when he was so graciously paid by such an awe-inspiring leader. And not only was he simply paid, he was fed and housed just like Spot's beloved newsboys. Oh, they were a tough crew, what with more brutality and size to them than any other of New York's newsies, but they were all friendly with him now just as if he were one of them. Such a thing demanded help when it was needed. Clearly, help was needed now, more than ever.

There was nothing but the cry of gulls circling overhead and the water softly lapping against the wooden supports of the dock. The large sailing-ship usually moored in the slip to his right was out, presumably on a fishing trip or ferrying passengers around through nearby Sheepshead Bay where Coney Island sat. More than anything he knew Racetrack was very fond of Sheepshead Bay not only for its crowds but for its horse racing. Three tracks were open from May all through October and the little Italian was most attached to the Sheepshead Track where he was well-known and well-received as one of the regulars.

He sat, considering. Of all things that could have happened, he never expected this. Not this cruelty, not this carelessness, not this harsh reality. Sure orphans were not looked upon with the most adoring eyes or the most sympathetic hearts, but that was to be expected, of course. There were troublesome orphans but then again there were troublesome wealthy, too. _Those_ people, however, those people came at too high a price. Orphans didn't know any better, though. They were easier to catch and no one questioned their disappearance.

Except for each other, Shame thought grimly. And maybe they weren't all so smart, but they were just as human. They felt the same warmth from the same sun, the same ground was hard beneath their feet. More than that, they shared the same human emotions -- joy, pride, anger, _pain_ … 

He turned his face away.

He was human just as much as them.

For a while he sat writing quietly before Finch returned. The tall boy did not even speak a greeting, he simply went running down the dock and leapt in the river, his shirt thrown off behind him. He laughed heartily, happily, and splashed his friend.

"Come on, come fer a swim," Finch laughed again, smoothing his hair back, treading madly.

"Don't feel like it."

"Yer mad. Dah weddah'll be changin' soon. Come on, it's nice." He splashed at Shame one last time.

Shame smiled. No matter what the situation, Finch always had the power to make him laugh, to make him so happy. He pushed his bag aside and tore his shirt over his head.

"Think you can get away with that?" he shouted with a grin as he ran and took a flying leap from the dock.

It was a cold night and he felt oddly down as he curled up next to Finch on the dirty mattress. Two cheap cotton sheets were stretched over them and in the other corners of the room he saw various boys waiting quietly to slip into their own states of rest. Finch's body still smelled like the river and his skin was warm and soft.

"I'll see yah in dah mornin', Shame," he whispered in the darkness. "Sleep well."

"You, too," Shame replied. He put his head on the pillow, dark hair just grown out enough to be ever-so-slightly mused by the dampness that still clung to it. He brushed it back with his palm. "Sweet dreams, Finch."

"G'night." the tall boy whispered. Then he was silent and still. 

Shame pulled the cover closer to his chin, little hands gripping the top of the sheets. But he was tired, tired both in body and in mind. And even though he was so very uncertain, and he was frightened, when he closed his eyes he did not open them again, and his body slumped with the easy breath of deep sleep.


	3. Chapter THREE

Sorry about the delay with my stories right now … school and friends and generally just mass craziness! Things will be getting back to normal soon, however, so keep checking in with me and see what's new. 

__

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated.

And as I've said before, only Shame and Finch are mine. Suing me will get you no where; in fact, the expenses of a court case against me would greatly outweigh any potential profits because as of right now, I am absolutely flat broke.

**__**

The Blood-Red Streets of Brooklyn

THREE

Even the sunlight was cold the next morning when he awoke. Finch had already gone and Shame, opening his eyes, felt himself sprawled out across the mattress.

His body did not feel rested but that was to be expected. Heaving himself up, he could see the Brooklyn Boys stirring in the cold light of a cold day.

Cold matched the feeling in his heart.

"Mornin'," one of the newsies greeted him and he smiled dopily.

"Morning, Monty." he nodded in reply and reached for his shirt. Running a hand over his hair to flatten it, he then brushed his teeth was an old toothbrush he had tucked into his suitcase that fateful day which now seemed so long ago.

The halls were alive with newsboys readying themselves for their morning sell. Dirty clothing was scattered everywhere and he stepped over it as another boy, shaving, bumped into him.

"Sorry," the boy said and smiled. "Mornin' tah yah, Shame."

The small boy smiled politely in return. These boys had taken time to warm up to him, but now, just as with each other, they would gladly fight for him, protect him at any costs. In turn, he had come to know them, and to love them.

He descended the bleak staircase into the entrance hall. Sometimes Spot slept there, other times he was tucked away in a room high up in the warehouse. It all depended upon Spot's mood, his inclination to be silent. It also depended upon the presence of Racetrack.

Light was filtering through the filthy windows but it was deceiving because winter would soon set in. Summer in New York was like summer in an oven, but winter … winter was the meanest, bleakest season of all. He wished that for the orphans' sake it would hold off or come mildly. But most years, most years …

"Ovah heah, Shame." It was Spot Conlon's voice. Shame could tell already that he had a new chore, a new request to which to adhere.

He went obediently and Spot held out a hand with a folded, stamped paper. Shame took it, and, dreading what he would hear, tucked it away in his vest pocket.

"What do I need to do, Spot?" he asked, intense black eyes peering up into Spot's face. Those dark eyes swirled with emotion, with intelligence, with the unspoken. There were still things he was never able to speak aloud, not to Spot, not to Jack, not anyone. Save only to Finch.

Only to Finch.

"Tah Jack, Shame, an' be quick. I'se gonna need yah back soon." he answered, then moved off in another direction.

Finch was sitting on a bench against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette. Hand on the pocket in which the letter lay, Shame took a few weak steps toward his friend.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "I'll sleep there and eat on the way back."

"Want me tah go wichyou?"

He shrugged. "If you want."

"We can make the trip all today if you want to be back here befoah dusk."

"Nah, I think I'll just stay overnight." This may have been Finch's home, but it certainly was not Shame's. No, and it never would be.

Spot was glancing over in their direction. "I need yah heah, Finch." he called in a loud, clear voice.

"Oh." Finch raised his eyebrows in a humourous way. "Dat settles dat, I suppose."

Shame smiled in understanding. "Yeah, I suppose it does. Listen," he said, and rose. "Take care, will you? Can't be too safe anymore." And although his voice asked but one question, his eyes swirled with the promises of a thousand worlds.

"I will, Shame." Finch said gently. He was a big kid, tall and strong, but with Shame he was infinite gentleness. "You too, kid." And for an instant they warmly embraced. "I'll see yah latah, kid." Then Shame was gone.

It was exactly the kind of weather expected from a mid-October day and Shame was pleased that there was no humidity and a cool breeze stirring the waters of the Hudson below him as he walked across the Bridge. Some were afraid of this Bridge, he knew, some got sick and dizzy from the height, but when he stopped to peer over the side, he felt no fear, only wonder and the tiniest, most fragile bit of optimism. He did not like to be away from Finch, he never did, but now that he was, at least he was alone with his writings and his itinerary intact. Sometimes he liked to be able to think his thoughts and go about his own way. Sometimes it was nice not to have to hear his own voice stirring up reluctant conversation.

He could hear the Angelus expelling the flock as it had called them in two hours ago. The bells had an even sound to them, a good sound and he liked the clear musicality of them. It was a big church to which they summoned the pious, an ancient great place that sat like a fortress just miles from the Manhattan Lodging House. Even the dust of the place seemed magical and when he passed through its huge arching doorways, he dipped his fingers in the holy water and blessed himself.

The place was empty was he moved down the aisle and toward the altar. He was not a pious Catholic, or a Protestant, or anything else for that matter. Rather he felt at peace inside the church, felt calmed and protected and comforted. His eyes rested on the huge Celtic cross atop the altar. Irish Catholic, the place was, hated as the Irish were in New York. The silence felt good, the coolness drying the tiny bit of sweat that had beaded up on his fine eyebrows. It was like a security blanket to Shame, who was glad to escape the problematic chaos of the outside world. In the church, things were different -- calm, almost, and still.

There was an involuntary snap within his mind, and he remembered back to a very, very long time ago … a dark-haired woman with blue eyes tugging him along gently, smiling … sitting in the pew with the woman, whispering in her ear … but she was gone now and only Shame remained. The memory made him comforted and calm. In here, the world was still. In here, everything was different. In here, he could control things.

He clutched at his hat as he moved up the aisle. Near the front he slid into a pew and sat for a moment. Quietly he took off his bag and left it on the ground next to his hat. Candles flickered as he approached the altar. A picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was against the wall and he thought it would look so much lovelier without the crown of thorns that was drawing blood from its pulsating mass.

The marble was cool on his knees even through his trousers as he knelt. He peered up at the Sacred Heart. That dark-haired woman, smiling … that gracefully aging woman holding him to herself, rocking him gently as they listened to the priest drone on in Latin … kissing his fine dark hair … blue eyes dancing …

They were the only memories he had of her.

He heard footsteps coming from the door to the confessional. "Shame," said a soft voice. "How are you?"

Shame bowed his head. He knew the voice. He knew the voice and he loved the voice. It brought to him a certain comfort that nothing else could quite do.

"I'm well, Father. And you?"

He looked on as the middle-aged priest straightened the white collar that proclaimed him as one of the Faith.

"I find meself well, Shame, thank you. What troubles bring you here, my child?"

"Just the usual, Father. Just the usual."

The Father's tone was always so sincere and gentle. Whereas most priests moved Shame to fear God, Father Carey was tender and understanding. "Have you something to talk about, my child?"

"No, Father." He sighed. The church was so quiet, so serene. Sometimes Shame slept here when he had no where else to go. Churches all tried to help the sick and the homeless, they all tried to be the best in God's eyes, but of all the places which had once helped him, Shame thought he liked this one best.

Father Carey never failed to have a sympathetic ear. He confessed some of the Brooklyn Boys, those with the Faith at least. Shame did not claim to have the Faith but he liked Father Carey and he liked the peace and protection of the church. "You have all your things with you." he said, motioning to the bag slumped next to the pew. Then he smiled kindly. He had kind eyes, Father Carey did. "Are you to leave us again, child?"

It was like Finch calling him "kid" … he was oddly comforted by it. "Yeah, I'm off to Manhattan. I need to give a letter to someone."

"All alone?" He shook his head gently. "'Tisn't safe now, 'tisn't right for you to be alone in such a time as this."

"I wouldn't get paid if I didn't go, Father," Shame insisted. How often had he confided to this man? All those times … all those times Father Carey had listened. "And there was no one extra to go with me. Sometimes," he said quietly. "Sometimes I like being alone."

"W all do." came the ready answer.

Shame blinked. "Even you, Father?"

"Even me."

Father Carey took a seat next to Shame. There was a giant crucifix around his neck, tucked away in the pocket just over his heart. His simple black robes invited Shame to forget about his own meager existence.

"You're off to see the newsboys?"

"Yes, Father. To give them the letter and to ask them to help fight the Children's Crusade."

Father Carey sighed. "The Children's Crusade. Long into the night I've prayed for such a thing to end," he said and his eyes were full of the same weariness that had filled Spot's eyes. "Would it offend you, Shame, if I told you that I have for you, and for Finch, and for the other boys, too?"

Shame shook his head. He had never claimed to follow the faith but Father Carey was a great friend to him and he would never tell the Father that his prayers offended him because of all kindnesses in the world, this was one of the greatest, thought Shame. "No, of course not. I thank you for your prayers, Father."

"Oh, I just wish you all safety and comfort."

The small boy shifted his weight in the hard wooden pew. "Comfort we will never have, but safety … one day we might see something of that sort."

"I do all that I can, Shame, and so do many others."

"Thank you, Father."

The Father smiled kindly. His smile was always kind. "Think nothing of it, my child."

"Will you confess me, Father?"

"Right now?"

"Yes, Father."

He sighed. His hair was very dark, though not as dark as Shame's own, and it was speckled in a place or two by early gray. He stood. "Here, then, Shame," he said, opening the door to the confessional.

Shame knelt. In the dark he could not see the priest and it made him feel better. But he'd tell Father Carey about such things as his sins more willingly than anyone else. Well, maybe not Finch, but Father Carey was different than Finch anyway.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a fortnight since I last confessed."

"And what sins have you committed in a fortnight, my child?"

"I lied, I stole. Sometimes I think too much, Father, because I have not lived enough. I think too much even when I know it is wrong."

"My child, my child, surely you are not as bad as all that. Even now in such trying times you remain innocent. You have nothing to fear, my child."

"Even though I lie and cheat and steal, Father?"

"Even so, child," he heard the calming voice. "Have you anything else heavy on your conscience?"

"No, Father."

"Then go thou freed, and be absolved of all that worries you. Do a good deed for another, my child, and so shall you be forgiven. Bless you, my child."

Shame filed from the box. He did not like the idea of someone else knowing all his secret troubles, but this was different. This was Stephen Carey and Father Carey had never failed to help him before, not once, not ever. He liked Father Carey, he trusted Father Carey … what he said was said in confidence and never repeated.

It was another few moments before Father Carey quietly came from the confessional. _Sometimes I think too much, Father, because I have not lived long enough_. He felt better, his conscience lighter. Even if he did not have the Faith, he had the Conscience and many times it did keep him awake at night.

As usual the Father went to his own chambers, purposely giving Shame time to reflect on things past. This Shame did, kneeling before a statue of the Virgin Mary. He looked up into her face. The chiseled eyes were kind and sincere, rimmed with only the faintest traces of sadness. For a long time he studied her, then bowed his head and rose. If something happened in Manhattan and he could not stay there, he could come back and sleep in the church. At least in the church he was protected by watchful eyes. No one would dare approach him in this holiest of places, surely.

So he left, the giant oak doors closing softly behind him. There was the tiniest bit of regret, as always, since the church was so quiet and cool and so far removed, it seemed, from the stinking streets. The flowers around the altar gave the interior a nice scent. Such a lovely smell. But the streets, the streets … it was a different world. At least it was a comfort to know that Chicago had been much the same.

With a worn black shoe he scuffed at the gravel beside the road. The day was his now, he was free. There were times when he liked that feeling; other times he despised it without knowing why. Sometimes there was a sad feeling in his heart and he did not understand that either. A downtrodden feeling as if his soul had fallen a great distance and would not come back. Those were the times he stayed close to Finch, the times he slept in the church. He had not ever understood it, not ever more than half-way acknowledged it. But now it seemed to consume him, especially late in the night when all the heaviness of the world fell upon his little shoulders.

Tonight, though, tonight he would sleep in the warmth and comfort of the Manhattan Lodging House. Tonight he would surround himself with good people and good food and funny jokes and light-heartedness.

He strolled off in the direction of a falling sun. 


End file.
